


they'll hang us in the louvre

by isntyet



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, akaashi rare pair week 2k17, all is far in louvre and war, an art student au no one asked for, everybody is there if you squint, lots of mentions of the louvre, more will be added later as they make appearences, only three of those people are in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 03:49:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11245701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isntyet/pseuds/isntyet
Summary: Akaashi Rare Pair Week 2k17, Day One.If Takeda-sensei notices his students slowly turning into primal animals, he doesn’t show it. He fixes the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and blushes his apologies for not specifying (Akaashi doesn’t buy it) before he answers simply, “There are five slots available.”





	they'll hang us in the louvre

**Author's Note:**

> [Akaashi Rare Pair Week 2k17](http://akaashirarepairweek.tumblr.com), day one.  
>  prompt: rivalry.
> 
> i'm co-hosting this ARPW & you can find the prompts [here](http://akaashirarepairweek.tumblr.com/prompts) if you want to participate! the more the merrier.
> 
> me, showing up late to my own party: this was supposed to be 5k
> 
> things to be aware of as this fic progresses: chapters will get marginally longer, there is a poor depiction of art students probably, excessive mentions of the Louvre.
> 
> title of the fic & the chapter are from lorde's 'the lourvre' and i recommend a listen

Never has Akaashi Keiji been happier to feel a breeze through a window.

For some ungodly reason, Takeda-sensei has declared war against the air conditioner which means that despite all open windows and the relief of a windy day, sweat adheres Akaashi’s shirt to his back uncomfortably. It’s hot enough that even the model, who he has barely paid any mind to and is sans clothing, is visibly sweating. His gaze flits toward his flush, tired expression, a bit pitying, before they return to his current sketch.

It bears neither resemblance to the model nor any previous models that have sat for this class. It does however bear remarkable resemblance to a boy with ridiculous bed head, seated almost directly across the room from him. In fact, all the sketches that Akaashi has produced in this class since the beginning of term have shown a similar, remarkable resemblance to Bed Head Boy.

He’s well aware that the whole thing is a bit creepy but at least he takes the zero instead of handing them over for a grade. He’d certainly benefit from giving up on his fascination of his classmate but he still hasn’t found a way to transfer the _quiddity_ of him onto paper yet and determination to do so continually wins the internal moral battle he has about it twice a week.

People start lazily shuffling their things together, itching to leave as soon as Takeda-sensei dismisses them. Akaashi sets his pencil down, stretching his arms and rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. Through the handicap of slick palms and exhausting heat, he’s managed to fill six whole pages; a quick thumb through of them determines that he _still_ hasn’t quite reached his goal. His tongue clicks against the back of his teeth, dissatisfied. The small thump of the sketchbook closing does little to make him feel better.

Not for the first time, he bites back the fear that it’s something he’ll never be able to do. Akaashi has always worked hard and his technical improvement over the years is tangible proof of that but he’s no genius. He doesn’t have that natural ability to capture emotion the way raw talent does. Most people in his class seem to run laps around him when it comes to invoking emotion or effortlessly capturing an audience’s attention with their art. He has a bit of work to do, if he’s being modest.

Takeda-sensei dismisses the model and everyone starts earnestly preparing to leave. Akaashi gathers his own things, absently shoving them into his bag as he ponders over the possible outcomes of asking Bed Head Boy to model for him and how likely it is that it ends well for him. He debates offering to pay him — college students are always in need of extra money — but Akaashi doesn’t really have the money to spare. Not to mention his lack of argument for if the fact of their class having a different, free model every week comes up in the conversation.

He exhales a sigh, shouldering his bag just as Takeda-sensei politely calls for the attention of the class. “Before you leave, I have an announcement!” The students as a whole, Akaashi included, deflate marginally at the brief prevention of their freedom.

 “One of the galleries we have a partnership with is holding an exhibit just before the end of term and has generously set aside a few slots for student work to be debuted during the event—” Takeda-sensei starts, pleasant and unbothered by the communal groan of displeasure that follows the statement— “Any media within the physical arts is allowed but students wishing to submit for this opportunity must present a portfolio of ten pieces, of which _one_ will be selected. If exposure isn’t enough of an incentive for you — those who are chosen will be exempt from handing in an additional portfolio for their final and will instead receive an automatic pass for this course. All submissions must be brought to the gallery by the end of the month.”

The previous disgruntled mumble shifts to anticipative murmuring, excitement lightening some of the slumpier sets of shoulders but Akaashi blanks into white noise.

Something about the wording Takeda-sensei used unsettles him. The man has been known to drape prose and favour diction throughout his constructive criticism in order to suggest a deeper meaning. It’s something Akaashi is actually quite fond of usually. This puzzle? Not so much. He collects the pieces carefully, mind working from the outward edges of information inward as quickly as he can. There’s a pause where he debates whether raising his hand is necessary or not but he opens his mouth to speak before he can reach a conclusion on the matter.

He asks “How many is a few?“ at the exact time someone else asks “How many slots is it?” He turns his head to meet Bed Head Boy’s eyes and maybe it’s just the awkwardness of two minds working at the same time (or maybe it’s Akaashi’s residual guilt about his weird obsession with sketching him) but the air in the room seems to rapidly thicken with mutual realization. The other students seem to fumble to their own realizations quickly as the buzz dulls to silent anticipation.

If Takeda-sensei notices his students slowly turning into primal animals, he doesn’t show it. He fixes the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and blushes his apologies for not specifying (Akaashi doesn’t buy it) before he answers simply, “There are five slots available.”

It’s impossible to mistake the tension for anything else now. Akaashi intentionally doesn’t hesitate with his question this time, “Which gallery did you say it was, Takeda-sensei?”

In contrast to his flushed apology, Takeda-sensei smiles wide, and says almost proudly, “Oh, I didn’t! It was considered quite the prestigious one a couple years ago and is looking to make a comeback from a change in ownership. It’s likely most of you have already guessed —”

Akaashi’s gut twists annoyingly when Bed Head Boy says it at the same time, “Karasuno.”

“Right you are, Akaashi-kun, Kuroo-kun. That’s the one!”

His head reels, thoughts varying from an amused _jinx_ (aimed at the newly named Bed Head Boy, Kuroo) and a semi-sweet _that’s the one, indeed_. Karasuno might as well be the Louvre, as far as Japan goes. Akaashi ought to know. He’s part of the work study program there. It only smarts a little that he had technically known about the exhibit already but hadn’t been informed about the student opportunity by his senpais. He makes a mental note to bring it up during his shift.

The heat is stifling to begin with; it presses in harshly from all sides with a new oppressiveness. A better man would learn support and encourage his fellow artists to rise to the challenge. Akaashi makes formidable enemies of them. He won’t lose sleep over it. His gaze flits blankly between the nineteen other students in his class and in the time it takes for one second to tick into the next, his acquaintances become rivals.

His silent declaration of war accidentally lingers on Bed Head Kuroo for a beat and if he sees the same determination mirrored in molten gold eyes, it certainly doesn’t light a fire in the twisted pit of his stomach nor tighten his grip around the strap of his bag as if it directly strengthens his resolve. That would be ridiculous.

He has a lot of work to do, if he’s being honest.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [isntyet](http://isntyet.tumbrl.com) & [awhkaashi](http://awhkaashi.tumbrl.com) on tumblr.


End file.
